


contemptible dreams

by couldaughter



Category: Sins of the Cities Series - K. J. Charles
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-09 05:58:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16444160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/couldaughter/pseuds/couldaughter
Summary: “Once it sinks in I’ll probably wake up screaming.”





	contemptible dreams

Rowley Green tried not to dwell too much on the past.

Or, well, being honest - perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he didn’t revel in it. There had been very little to recommend his early life while he was in the process of living it, and therefore little to no need to reflect back on it as an adult, save for the purpose of warning himself against some action or another on the basis of a terrible past consequence.

Unfortunately ever since taking up lodgings at Clem’s boarding house there had been a lot of occasion to take inspiration, and warning, from the past.

Not least when he could feel something cold and razor-sharp welling up inside him, thinking of the moment Edmund had made the error of poisoning Clem’s teacup. Or, as the present moment suggested to him, when he woke at midnight, perturbed by some unknown force, to find Clem dreaming badly.

It wasn’t an unusual occurrence, in the weeks and months since Pen had been found and Clem’s cousin Tim reinstated to the family line, but it was still rare enough that Rowley felt a stab of surprise and anger in his gut, every time, before the concern could properly set in.

Clem, with his solid, dependable kindness, didn’t deserve the burden of bad dreams. Especially when he had been so considerate of Rowley’s own, longer standing ones as they began to share a bed more often, daring to increase the frequency of such visits to once a week or more.

It helped that Polly, with her Alice, wouldn’t bat an eye at the prospect. Or at least would find it offensive because of Clem’s position as landlord, rather than a more… judicial motivation. That had itself featured in a few of Rowley’s worse dreams, his dreaming self being a far less cautious man in general.

Clem made a muffled, frightened noise, face pressed into his pillow, jaw clenched. Rowley, now feeling guilty on top of his fury, rested a careful hand on Clem’s neck.

“Clem, star, wake up,” he said, as quietly as he could. There was always the risk of someone less sympathetic hearing, although midnight was perhaps the safest time for it. “You’re dreaming.”

Another noise, quieter now, confused. Rowley pressed his advantage, edging closer beneath the tangled sheets. “It’s not real, I promise. Wake up and see, alright? I may be blind without my glasses, but even I can see it’s just a dream.”

Clem gasped, a short intake of raspy breath, and opened his eyes. They were vacant only a moment, but Rowley fancied he could make a good guess at the subject of the dream from the way Clem said, “Oh, _Rowley_ ,” and wrapped himself around him, one arm secure around Rowley’s waist, the other sliding into his mess of mousy hair.

Rowley felt Clem shivering, tiny tremors snaking up and down his arms, and felt very much like crying. It was another impulse he’d grown familiar with during the entire sordid business, from Lugtrout to Godfreys, and had rather hoped he’d be done with it after the wedding; fate clearly had other plans.

“S-sorry,” said Clem, some minutes later, face buried in Rowley’s shoulder. It was a tricky position, that, considering Clem had four inches or so on Rowley when standing, but they made it work. 

With a sigh, Rowley pulled back just slightly, enough for a reflexive tightening of arms by Clem and barely enough for him to reach across and fetch his glasses, so as to see the gaslamp while he lit it.

No sense in getting suffocated from carelessness. He’d had quite enough of that for several lifetimes. 

Clem made a noise of protest when Rowley failed to lay back down immediately, clearly still half asleep but at least no longer shivering quite so badly. Rowley slid back under the covers up to his waist, resting his back against the wrought iron of the bedstead, and coaxed Clem up until he was settled against his shoulder, his thick head of hair soft beneath Rowley’s cheek.

“Bad one?” Rowley asked, quietly. It was a trifle inane, yes, but he had to say _something_ , before the silence fully descended and they spent the whole day underneath a stormcloud.

Clem nodded mutely, then moved his right hand to twine his fingers with Rowley’s left. “Rather,” he said, after a pause. Rowley suspected that he was doing his best to avoid stammering. “I don’t want to t-talk about it.”

Ah, there it was.

Rowley looked down at their linked hands, feeling a swell of calm despite the circumstances. “You don’t have to,” he replied, feeling a frown forming despite his best efforts. “If it would - help at all, though, I wouldn’t mind hearing it.”

“I appreciate the thought,” said Clem, speaking slowly and deliberately. “Perhaps in the morning.” His voice was thick and rasped slightly, quite unlike his usually smooth tone. His accent didn’t betray his upbringing, with corners sanded away by years of association with the crowd at the Jack, and the melting pot population of Clerkenwell to soften it further.

“Alright,” Rowley murmured, squeezing Clem’s hand gently. “I’ll leave the lamp on for a while, I’m feeling a little skittish. Sleep well.”

“Thank you,” said Clem, eyes fluttering closed. He looked quite unfairly handsome, bedraggled and frazzled as he probably should have been after what had looked like a deeply unpleasant dream, but instead Rowley was caught by the sight of his dark eyelashes against the smooth brown skin of his cheeks.

Quite despicable, how much love he could feel at just past midnight.

He was tired, to be sure, but his shop wouldn’t suffer too much for a late morning opening, just this once. With painstaking care he retrieved a slim volume of poetry from the nightstand - the latest offering from Clem’s night time lectures at the Working Men’s Institute - and opened it one-handed to a marker Clem had left the previous evening. 

The light cast by the gaslamp was just so dim as to make reading an effort, but Rowley had been intrigued enough by Browning to begin following Clem’s poetical interests with a slightly keener eye.

It was a little too dense a read for Rowley, although he did enjoy the attempt of untangling the meaning of each line - at least until he reached ‘ _Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?_ ’, which was a little on the nose for one o’clock in the morning.

Clem shifted as Rowley closed the book, softly so as to avoid the snap as the pages met, and placed it on the nightstand.

He glanced down to find Clem’s jaw once again clenched, the fingers still twined with Rowley’s own beginning to grip more tightly.

It didn’t take any encouragement from Rowley to wake him up this time, at least; Clem lurched out of the dream with a somewhat louder gasp, chased with a sob which he muffled in Rowley’s shoulder.

Fingers untangled, Rowley rested a hand on Clem’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “I’m here, alright?”

Clem seemed beyond words for a moment, breath caught in his throat.

Rowley knew that Clem hated crying in front of people, even him. He had a feeling that could be traced rather a long way back, but Clem rarely spoke of his past in anything but light anecdotes. Most of the things Rowley knew about Clem’s childhood, beyond broad strokes, came from Tim, who was more than willing to disparage the memory of Clem’s father and half-brother with only the slightest provocation.

Where Tim let his feelings on the matter out, and presumably slept soundly in his marriage bed with Greta, Clem was inclined to letting any reaction to past family matters pile up and taking out the change in bad dreams.

His final, heroic shouting match with Edmund and ongoing defense of the Godfreys notwithstanding, of course. And not to say that Clem was naturally reserved - in all matters but those concerning his own family he was open, charming and honest. It was one of many fine qualities which had precipitated Rowley’s head-over-heels tumble into romance with his friend and landlord.

“I hate this,” said Clem, eventually, after a few more minutes of cut off sobs and Rowley’s arm around his shoulders. “I r-really hate it.” His voice was firm, but unable to conceal the stutter as he exhaled wetly. 

Rowley had never been witness to one of Clem’s conversations with Edmund prior to the very last, and had thankfully only had to deal with Phineas through telegram and letter, although that had been unpleasant enough, so he’d only known of Clem’s occasional speech impediment secondhand - again from Tim, who was probably too loose lipped for anybody’s good. It was unnerving to witness it at last in the privacy of what he was beginning to think of as _their_ bedroom.

Dangerous thinking, that.

“I know,” Rowley said, in lieu of something better, more comforting in response. He’d never been good with crying - his father had of course ridiculed him for it, when violence and ignorance weren’t enough punishment for his only son - and it made him feel dangerously close to tears himself, seeing Clem in that state.

He kissed him gently on the forehead. “Offer still stands, if you’d like. To talk about it, I mean.”

Clem sighed, and pushed himself upright until they were sat shoulder to shoulder. Scratching his beard with an air of anxiety rather than thoughtfulness, he looked oddly young for his thirty years. “I think I p-probably should, but I can’t guarantee I’ll be very, um, coherent.” He’d frowned at the stutter again.

Rowley smiled wryly. “The way your thoughts connect to one another is one of my favourite areas of study, Clem. I’d love to have another opportunity to work on my thesis.”

“And what’s that?” Clem asked, the faintest hint of a smile forming.

“That you think twice as fast as I do, easily,” said Rowley. The way Clem leapt from point A to point C mentally was apparently disliked by his relatives, because they were terrible people with no understanding whatsoever of exactly how wonderful Clem was. Not that Rowley was biased in the least, of course. “And that even if it were a defect, which it isn’t, I would love it anyway because it’s part of what makes you so perfectly yourself.”

Clem blinked at him, then looked down, the faintest hint of colour rising in his cheeks. “It’s a little silly, really, how much I love you. You always know just what to say.” He lifted Rowley’s hand and brushed his lips over the knuckles. “I’ll tell you about the d-dream, then, if you really won’t mind it.”

“I promise,” said Rowley, the simple words belying the deep sincerity with which he spoke. “You know nothing would make me think less of you.”

Clem shifted, uneasy, plucked at the bedcover with his free hand. “I suppose I’m just not used to people listening to me,” he said, still with that faint smile. “It’s quite novel, really, but I like the feeling generally.”

“It’s something you’ll just have to get used to, then,” said Rowley. “Because I have no intention of stopping.”

That got him a laugh, a small victory Rowley planned to savour. 

“It wasn’t a nice dream, as I’m sure you’ve guessed,” Clem said, after a few moments. He glanced away from the bed, towards the parlour, eyes distant. “They rarely are, when I remember them. I don’t want you thinking I’m quite such a poor soul as to have them every night.”

“Even if you did, I wouldn’t blame you,” said Rowley. He tightened his grip on Clem’s hand. “Dreams aren’t exactly something we choose.”

Clem bit his lip. He was still looking off into the parlour, the low light leaving his eyes in shadow. “You’re right of course. And yet I still feel a bit foolish having them, to be honest. They’re all either gruesome or miserable or miserably gruesome. There’s nothing interesting about them at all, except that they keep intruding on my sleep.”

Rowley pressed closer to his side, felt the shivers working their way through Clem’s chest. 

“It always starts the same way,” Clem said, quietly. So quietly Rowley had to strain to hear him. “The fog’s rolling in, and no one knows where you are. So I go out into the fog, and it’s so thick I can still feel it when I wake up, and I go to your shop, and there are flames in the windows. So I get inside, somehow, you know how dreams are about skipping time, and you’re lying on the floor.” He gasped, just barely, and Rowley could see that he was crying, tears dripping from his cheeks. “Just as Spim promised to hurt you. And then I wake up, just as I see you, and I’m never quite sure if it was a dream or a memory.”

He turned back to Rowley, then, and fails to smile. 

“Oh, _Clem,_ ,” said Rowley, equally quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologise,” mumbled Clem. “‘S not your fault.” He sniffed, scrubbed at his face with the cuff of his nightshirt. It was blue and white striped flannelette, and quite the softest piece of clothing Clem owned. 

“It’s not,” said Rowley. “But I’m still sorry, in a general way. You’re hurting, darling. Why wouldn’t I take a little bit of that, since I’m here anyway?”

Clem huffed. “Martyr,” he said. He ducked his head, and returned Rowley’s grip on his hand, so hard Rowley saw both their knuckles pale. “Sometimes it’s about Pen and Greta; no need to think you’re unique in your role.” 

Rowley took a deep breath, feeling anger roil in his chest again. Clem oughtn’t to be suffering like this - none of them should be. Edmund was dead and so was Spim. Tim and Greta were stunningly happy, and Pen and Mark seemed to be working towards the same point. Rowley had his own share of bad dreams, of course, but not nearly so frequently as poor Clem. 

“The Flying Starlings crash down to earth?” He guessed, feeling quite ill as he said it.

“Yes,” said Clem. “Just that.” He sighed, and turned fully towards Rowley. His hair was ruffled, and his mouth set. He looked unfairly handsome, still. “I think I’d like to try to sleep,” he continued, sounding almost defiant. “It’s almost one o’clock, and I do have duties to attend to in the morning.”

“Of course,” said Rowley. He leaned forward and kissed Clem softly on the mouth, and then again on his forehead. “Sleep well, love.”

Clem smiled at him, impossibly fond. His eyes shone in the lamplight. “Dream sweetly, dearheart.”

**Author's Note:**

> this had been languishing unfinished in my docs for about seven months by the time i took it out, polished it, and tacked on the last ~800 words so if there's a sudden, inexplicable tone shift - that's why!
> 
> god i love these sweet sweet men. clem/rowley is my favourite relationship from sins of the cities and frankly i'm very please to be adding to such a small tag for the two of them. the book rowley reads from is by walt whitman, of course, which i think is _just_ about historically possible, but don't quote me on that. the line i quoted was just... too apt.
> 
> title also from walt whitman! specifically 'song of myself'
> 
> find me on twitter/tumblr @dotsayers, probably yelling about Something


End file.
